In the Still of the Night
by SomewhereApart
Summary: After Regina's confrontation with Zelena in 3x16, Robin drops by to check on her and tend to her injuries. For OQFixItWeek day 5.


It's not until word of the particulars of Regina's fight with that vile witch travels back with a few of his Merry Men – the ones that had been witness to the whole thing and lived to tell tall tales – that Robin abandons his post. Or rather, passes the burden onto his most trusted friend for just a little while.

He ought not to, she's put him in charge of quite precious cargo, but he'd heard the words "flung through the air like a rag doll" and "shattered that bloody clock good and proper" and "walked away a bit stiff, it looked to me" and had the unquellable urge to check on her. Just in case nobody else had. He knows she's a strong woman, and he knows she's not one who's particularly alone in life – she has the Savior, and the Prince and Princess, but the former is busy keeping the truth of this town from their curse-befuddled son, and the latter are likely more focused on the impending arrival of their child than on whether or not the woman who once hunted them across hill and dale is in need of any sort of care.

She'd looked fine earlier, when she'd asked him to guard her heart a while longer, when he'd reminded her of the promise of a drink one of these nights. He might even say she'd had what he's heard in this land is called "swagger" – a confidence and easy gait born of self-satisfaction. But one doesn't rise to the throne without learning to bite one's tongue and maintain an air of comfort despite the pinch of corset boning, the ache of too-tight, too-high shoes, the throbbing discomfort of a full bladder that can't be relieved until layers upon layers of skirts have been removed by efficient handmaidens. She can smile blithely through pain; he's spent enough time around nobility to know that.

And while she's not alone in life, not truly, he knows in his belly that she will be alone tonight – a truth which is simply unacceptable to him, considering what he's heard she'd gone through ("I heard tell the witch tried to rip her heart clean out, only the old Queen hasn't got one"). So he tells of his secret treasure to Little John and Little John only, bids him keep watch over the roots of a particular tree until his return, then heads out into the night in search of her.

Her home in this land isn't nearly as lavish as the castle she'd occupied in the other, but it's still the largest thing he's seen since he arrived in this town (there's a manor that might rival it, one he's seen through trees from afar, but nevertheless, the Mayor's home is quite regal).

All the windows are darkened except for a few there on the upper floor, soft lamplight setting the drawn curtains to a faint yellow glow. She's still up and, it appears, all alone as he suspected.

Robin travels the short distance between road and door, then presses his finger to the button just beside it, a low double chime ringing out inside. For a little while, everything is still, and dark, and then he sees a light go on, sees a shift of shadow in the semi-dark through the front door.

When it opens, Regina stands wrapped in a thin grey robe, clutched closed by one hand at the neck, a frown of bewilderment on her lips.

"Robin? What are you doing here?" she asks, her voice soft and a bit rough, like it's been abraded by sleep or thick emotion.

"I heard the details of your run-in with the witch," he tells her gravely. "I wanted to see that you were alright."

Her eyes focus beyond him, darting around across the dark of her yard, and when she asks, "Where is—?" her voice is little more than a whisper.

"Safe," he assures. "Secret, still, but for one more soul who knows of it. Are you alright, milady?"

"I'm fine," she assures with a shrug of her shoulder and an answering wince of pain.

Robin gives her a look. "Not so fine, it appears."

She sighs, adjusts her hold on her robe and admits, "Being flung like a wrecking ball through a clock tower doesn't do wonders for the back, but I'll recover."

She will, he knows that, but there is something about her, this woman, this not-so-Evil-Queen that tugs at his middle. He felt it from the moment she caught the arrow he'd fired at her, from the moment she smiled and spoke and flirted. She'd felt… well, _his,_ for lack of a better word. He's not overly fond of that one, to be honest, because it smacks of a sort of possessive ownership he doesn't claim to feel for her. But he's stuck on her, on the thought of her, on her safety, on unravelling her mysteries thread by thread. He's possessed wholly and inexplicably with a desire to show her care, to make sure she's not left to tend injuries by herself.

"Will you let me see to you?" he asks, half expecting to be flung down the walk, charred to a crisp, and yet knowing at the same time that she won't do any such thing. Indeed, she doesn't. She simply tilts her head at him, a sort of pained and vulnerable smile twitching her lips for a moment before fading away again.

"I'm really okay," she insists, her voice no stronger than a breath and her pretense just as flimsy.

"For my own sake, then," he says, giving her a lopsided smile. "Indulge a poor thief in a moment of chivalry."

One dark brow rises, her face morphing into the same playful challenge it had held in that farmhouse not so long ago. "I don't need to be rescued, thief."

Something tugs at his mind, a memory, or not quite. A sense of deja vu, like he's heard that before, and he thinks she must feel it too, because her brow furrows for a moment. And then despite her protests, she's stepping back, holding her door open for him to step easily inside, and so he does.

When she leads him past the darkened foyer into the light of the staircase, she mutters, "Don't get any ideas," and he swears his honor is true and her virtue at no risk. He's fairly certain her low utterance afterward is something akin to her not having much virtue in need of protecting, but she says it quietly enough that he can't be certain.

And then she's pausing outside a half-open door, shooting him a glance with just the barest hint of visible apprehension, then taking a deep breath and leading him through.

Into her bedroom.

The amount of trust she is placing in him is not lost on Robin, and while he can't resist the urge to give the room a sweeping glance (it's full of all the creature comforts of this world – an abundance of soft pillows and smooth fabrics, in a neutral palette of colors that seems too muted for the tempestuous queen), he vows to himself that he'll keep his focus on her and his curiosity at bay.

And then her robe is falling, her back still to him, and beneath is a nightdress of thin silk with skinny straps over her nearly bare shoulders. Bare of fabric but not of color – they're mottled purple, a few scrapes visible over the bruising, and Robin winces his sympathy.

"You've not broken anything, have you?" he asks tenderly, stepping in close and ghosting his fingertips against a small patch of shoulder that's still olive-toned. Regina tenses under his touch, then relaxes, but he's already pulling away.

"I don't think so," she rasps. "Just bruised."

"Quite," he confirms. "Have you any lavender oil?"

Surely there's something more effective in this world where the healers work in sterile rooms with all manner of strange concoctions and machines to aid them, but he's a simple man, and a man who's treated his fair share of injuries after a heist or a barfight gone a bit out of hand. Lavender oil's not failed him yet, and he thinks tonight it will do just fine as well.

"There's some in the bathroom," she tells him. "Second door on the right, under the sink."

His palm cups her bicep gently, a touch he hopes causes her no pain, and he urges, "If you'll bare your back to me, I'll see to it," then leaves her be for a moment, seeking out the oil. It's just where she said it would be, in that room down the hall, underneath the sink. A small brown bottle that smells of home (of Marian, he thinks with a nostalgic rush of fondness, melting away as easily as it arrived).

He hunts for towels next, and finds those easily as well, runing water from the taps until it is icy cold, then wetting three small cloths and wringing them until they cease dripping. He stuffs them into a cup he finds on the sink's edge, crams them in as best he can manage, and then takes them and the oil back to the bedroom.

He'd thought she might refuse his request (and she'd had every right to, to be honest – they're little more than strangers to each other), but he finds her belly-down on her bed, her nightgown traded for a pair of silky sleep trousers, her back bare and angry with burst blood vessels.

The thought that she'd been left to manage on her own in this state burns indignance through him. Sure, it's only bruising, but it's deep, painful. She's hiding her pain even from him, he's certain, but the others have to have known she'd be suffering. You don't earn injury like this without being battered about, and they'd all borne witness to it. No matter the state their lives are in, Regina had risked her own for all their sakes, and those who care for her ought to have at least made certain her wounds were treated properly.

The floorboards creak beneath his weight as he approaches the bed, and she turns her head to look at him, at the cup in his hands, and the oil, and then she asks needlessly, "Did you find it okay?"

"No trouble at all," Robin assures as he rounds the bed and sets the cloths on her night table. She keeps her head facing the door, away from him now, as he seats himself gingerly on the mattress beside her. "This may sting a bit, milady, but I'll be as gentle as I can manage."

Regina breathes in, and nods, but says nothing. Silence spreads comfortably between them as he tilts the bottle and dribbles a line of fragrant oil down the length of her spine, then sets it aside. His hands settle gently on her skin, as light of a touch as he can manage as he spreads the oil across her battered flesh. Regina doesn't protest, only tenses infinitesimally and grimaces faintly.

Robin works in silence, trying not to focus on how eager he is to simply touch her as he smoothes the oil across aching muscles and then reaches for one of the cool towels, draping it across her shoulder blade where the bruising is darkest. She hisses at the sudden chill, and he tells her, "The cold will help with the swelling."

She nods again, relaxing slowly, and murmuring as soft, "Thank you. You didn't need to do this."

"Someone had to," he tells her, spreading a second cool cloth over another splotch of bruising. "You can't very well reach these spots yourself."

"I suppose that's true," she tells him quietly. And then, "But I do have magic. I can heal myself."

"And yet, your back looks like a ripe eggplant in several places," he points out, at a loss of what to do with himself now that she's oiled and cooling. He stays perched on her bed, because moving to the chair on the far side of the room seems far too distant and impersonal. (And, if he's completely honest, because staying so close allows him a rare unguarded view of her.)

As Regina admits, "I'm saving my strength for the next showdown," Robin takes note of a constellation of barely-there freckles on her shoulder, his fingers itching to reach out and trace the shape between each mark. But that would be rather forward now, wouldn't it?

And besides, she sounds so despondent. This afternoon's apprehension hasn't been nearly as vanquished as it had seemed when she'd come to him earlier. Robin pulls his attention from tracing those freckles and offers reassurance instead: "You beat her today; you'll beat her again."

"I outsmarted her today," she corrects him. "And she still beat the shit out of me. She's so much stronger; I can't beat her on skill, I can't beat her with magic. Today was just luck. Sooner or later, she'll find my heart, and…"

He can see the tension in her jaw, her shoulders, settles a hand over the base of her spine where she's thankfully not bruised, hoping that it will soothe her as much as the vow he makes: "That's never going to happen, milady. I'll guard your heart; it will not be parted from me but for pain of death."

"Don't," she sighs, lifting her head finally in order to turn it to face him. Her lips are drawn into a scowling pout, her dark eyes imploring. "Don't die for me. If it comes to that, let her have it. Please. I'm not worth—"

"I'll be the judge of that," he interrupts, but it only has her shaking her head harder, levering up onto one elbow – or starting to before she remembers her torso is bare, her modesty protected only by her prone position.

And he doesn't want her to ache, doesn't want the shift and bunch of muscle to cause her any more pain than it must, so Robin relents, in a way. Tells her, "But I'll do my best to ensure that it never comes to that. I'll help in any way I can to see you safe."

Regina watches him for a moment, eyes narrowed, brow knit.

"Why do you care so much?" she wonders, finally relaxing back into the mattress.

"Because, milady…" Robin reaches over and presses his fingertips to the cool cloths to gauge if they've begun to warm from the blood-flushed heat of her battered back. "I find I'm really quite taken with you. Your beauty, and your strength. Your fire. It would be a shame for such things to leave this world when it can be helped."

One brow slides up, up, and then she's taunting him: "If you died for me, you wouldn't be here to appreciate them."

"Ah, but they'd go on without me just fine, wouldn't they?" he teases right back. "And that, milady, would be comfort enough for all eternity."

Her lips purse, she looks like she might be about to protest again, but Robin rather likes the idea of getting the last word on the subject, so he speaks up again before she can manage.

"Now, you should get some rest. Lavender oil can only do so much; what you truly need is a good night's sleep."

"I haven't had a good night's sleep in decades," she replies, but she burrows down more comfortably against her pillows nonetheless.

"Just shut your eyes then," he urges, sure that if she does, she'll be asleep in minutes. "I'll stay a bit longer, change out the cloths again when they warm and then head back to keep watch over your heart."

"You don't have to stay," Regina insists, although she closes her eyes regardless, much to Robin's satisfaction. "I can handle myself; you can go."

"I know you can, milady," he assures, but he doesn't move from his perch. "It's for my own peace of mind."

It's for both of them, and he thinks they both know it. But he'll let her save face again, let her give that little huffed sigh like she thinks he's being silly. Because she's still lying there, eyes shut, exposed to him, trusting him. And because under his watchful gaze her breathing begins to slow, and deepen, and even out. Her limbs begin to sink further into the bedding, that knit in her brow smoothes out.

For all her protestations that she won't sleep, couldn't sleep, she doesn't stir a bit until he gingerly trades the first cool cloth for a fresh one – and even then she only tenses, and sighs, and relaxes again.

Robin stays a while longer, watches over her in her slumber, offers a few soothing shushes and a gentle stroke through her hair when something in the world of dreams has her whimpering and gasping.

When she's still again, he peels away the damp cloths, and pulls her covers up to her shoulders to keep her warm, then reluctantly sees himself out through the quiet halls of her home.

When he sees her next, she doesn't mention his visit, and Robin gives her the courtesy of doing the same.


End file.
